


Cottage in the Forest

by MadMags



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Cabins, Faunlock, Fauns & Satyrs, M/M, Pack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-20
Updated: 2019-05-20
Packaged: 2020-03-08 07:38:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18890140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MadMags/pseuds/MadMags
Summary: Alternate Title:Cabin in the WoodsUnbetaed, unproofread, unbritpicked.Written on my phone at 2AM because my brain decides when I write, not me. Marked as 'done' because I'm unlikely to continue this idea, but also leaving it open to revisit if I ever do. This is more for my own personal archival.





	Cottage in the Forest

Sherlock had discovered the cabin one cold winter evening. It had been left empty for some time according to the dust layer inside, the peeling barn paint and the overgrown garden. 

The door had been unlocked, open to the cold and curious creature. He had shed his antlers early this season, satisfied with his small pack family and unlikely to need to fight potential suitors attempting to steal said family away. It made entering the human domicile easy.

He stood quite tall on spindly furred legs as he thumbed through an old book. He wasn't ignorant of humans or their ways. He had merely dismissed them in favor of studying the plants in his glen.

Truthfully, he knew his days numbered quite high in comparison with the human lives. He also knew their world was turbulent and changing. For a brief time, seasons and seasons ago, he'd been rapt with human interest.

His favored blue scarf had been appropriated from a human's clothing line while he had been exploring the outskirts of some town. It had been soft and enticing.

It brought out his dark fur, pale skin and electric blue-grey eyes. The faun-made linen vest was heavy with the pockets sewn in and onto the garment. He had squirreled away seeds and other various bits and baubles that amused him.

He added the book into a large hip pocket. A mason jar was added to a cotton tote he carried, along with a few metal utensils and a bit of lace curtain that remained in the kitchen. 

Sherlock felt no guilt at thieving the abandoned items. Human trash made his treasure.

Snow began to pelt down, making the faun curse his wanderings. Instead of inside his warm den, with the great white stag Lestrade, and their mousy-furred mate, Molly. Sherlock would be marooned in the human house during the coldest of hours of the night. 

It wouldn't do to lose an ear or tail because he had gotten himself distracted during a storm.

A metal woodstove was prepared easily enough, with dry old wood from a rack and a bit of flint from his great vest. Some dried herbs and melted snow made a warming tea. He chuffed into the cup as he huddled down for the night. 

Molly wouldn't complain, used to his wandering and curious nature. Lestrade, more a worrier than his petite mate, would have a row over the promises made to Mycroft about keeping Sherlock safe. 

Another book joined the first, and a third became his evening's entertainment. His large soft ear flicked as he grew engrossed in the mystery novel. Some things had to be assumed from context clues, but observation had taught him much about humanity. Enough to understand the fiction.

Human culture was engrossing as it once had been.

Dangerous too, by the description of guns and murder and hatred in their hearts.

A faun like Sherlock could, and had, lose himself in human indulgences.

He'd been afraid his brother would never allow him to escape their family pack a second time. He sighed thinking about Molly's impending spring offspring. 

Sherlock tried to distract himself with thoughts of the new life or lives that would join their pack. As his eyes blinked heavily, the thoughts of little fauns twisted into the excited shouts of human children he'd known in the summer he spent among them...

***

"Sherlock! A story!" Seven year old Mary demanded. Her white and pink dress offset her fiery red hair.

"Story!" Echoed the younger brother, Jack.

Wards of the elderly, Mrs. Martha Hudson. A kind woman who had bandaged him up after taking a beating and left for dead by larger bucks.

"Later, children..."

***

Mrs. Hudson's voice disappeared under the sound of crunching ice and gravel rocks.

Sherlock bolted awake, rising to his feet to peer out snow dusted windows. A strangely shaped horseless carriage sat out front of the house. It gleamed with metallic fierceness, wheels black and heavy with tread.

The lithe faun's instinct clamored for him to bolt, but he held still.

Outside, one formerly-Captain John Watson, climbed out of his SUV to examine the cottage his sister had rented for him.

Just get out of the city, Johnny. Take a breather. A rest. Let your leg -

"Damn my leg," he swore under his breath. 

He was bundled in a coat, hat, scarf, and winter boots. His army duffel stuffed with books and long johns, his laptop and everything one man might need to entertain himself on a "self recovery retreat."

He rolled his eyes hard. A couple of weeks in the country, all expenses paid by his sister and her lovely wife, was a hard thing to reject after his injured discharge from the military life he knew.

Inside, Sherlock had forgotten to leave, watching the man (the human man!), exit his vehicle.

He slipped out the back, hooves clicking almost silently as he flirted away.

On the otherwise, John opened the door to a warmed cottage. The embers of the faun's fire still heated the kitchen and living area. A mostly empty mug made John's mouth turn down. Instead of running back to his pack, Sherlock continued watching the confused man unpack his duffel and other bags from the outside of the cabin’s windows.

John built the fire in the stove back up, murmuring words like “Harry” and “blasted thing” as he puttered around. He did continue to lean into the warmth that the stove emitted, causing the faun to grin in self-satisfaction.


End file.
